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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258484">savior</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadfulbeauties/pseuds/dreadfulbeauties'>dreadfulbeauties</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pocket Mirror (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Autism, Gen, Gifted Kid Burnout, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, misdiagnosed mental illness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:40:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadfulbeauties/pseuds/dreadfulbeauties</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You look at the past through a portrait of a girl and you remember. Yes, that’s how it was...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>savior</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>while it’s never made clear, with the 19th century having as poor of an understanding of mental illness as it did, it’s very possible that goldia was misdiagnosed with schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder — my personal headcanon for the purpose of this fic is that goldia is autistic (like me) and has an anxiety disorder that only worsens as she gets older. harpae represents her initial sort of /child prodigy/ stage in her early teens before she deals with burn out.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You are different from your brother. Mama insists that it’s a compliment — “my special little girl” is what she refers you in a whisper as she tucks you into bed. But you feel like you’re drowning and voiceless at parties, feel your stomach turn at the odd looks you get as you ramble on about the plays you love. Wool socks are itchy on your feet but when you try to protest you just <em>can’t, </em>so the tears start to leak out of your eyes.</p><p>(Just a tad eccentric, the doctor reassure Mama when they think you aren’t listening. She’ll grow out of it when she’s older.)</p><p>You turn away from Mama, she smothers you so. None of the children at the boarding school want to talk to you — the girls there whisper behind your back about your hair ribbons, or “accidentally” knock over a bottle of ink to spill on your fresh-pressed uniform because it makes you cry. You feel the weight of what others might be feeling too soon, and it’s painful. Your teachers shake their heads and you just wish someone, anyone, would understand you.</p><p>So you blend in.</p><p>Even though the nightmares are getting worse. Even though you wake up with gaps in your memory and forget your brother’s name, much to Mama’s horror. Even though Papa is gone, eyes resting upon a younger woman less like Mama and then shot in the head during wartime.</p><p>You’ll hide. You’ll hide until it’s over, and you can be eccentric without people sneering it at you.</p><p>They ooh and ahh at how well you can play piano. G——-, they say, how well-read you are! It’s hard to believe someone as young as you is devouring the likes of Shakespeare. They are proud of you. And you are proud of yourself. And yet. And yet. And yet.</p><p>There’s always an “and yet”, isn’t there?</p><p>They hate you. They hate you. And you’re scared. Because you’re rotting in tandem with your surroundings, knowing that both nothing and everything is wrong with you. You’re different, but the parts of you that are different (the blackouts, the boy with one eye, your own brother’s turned his back on you, Mama’s getting sicker by the day) and make you you are what people hate you for the most.</p><p>Wouldn’t it be nice not to see them, G——-? You were a savior for long enough. Wouldn’t it be nice to close your eyes and never have to see them at all?</p><p>But your eyes were closed all this time, were they not? Your despair’s grip on you is chilling. You turned away from it even as you crumbled. And you’re tired. You’re tired of being a gifted girl, for being gifted means struggling to balance the weight of others’ perceptions of you on your back. They expect. And then they loathe you for it.</p><p>Better to be blind…</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i wrote this on my phone at 1am, hopefully it’s somewhat coherent :]</p><p>thank you for reading this one, folks. comments and kudos are welcome</p></blockquote></div></div>
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